Strange
by La-Matrona
Summary: Severus Snape never meant to live, and he certainly never meant to be saddled with a bride half his age, but when the past rears its inconvenient head, both he and Hermione Granger must deal with the consequences. A foul mouthed, pureblood!Hermione, marriage-law-wannabe, EWE, romance.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Oh hi! I'm back, this time with some more Snamione. I've been incredibly touched by how many people continue to read and comment on _The Heir_, and I wanted to write for this brilliant community again. Also, this is my OTP, so. I hope you enjoy this foul mouthed tale. I'm not sure exactly how long it will be, but so far it's three chapters deep and barely beginning. Have a lovely day, everyone!

**Notice Me Not Charm: **I am not the owner of Harry Potter, and am therefore not entitled to make money off of any of this, or claim that I created the characters or world. I am playing joyfully in JK Rowling's tree-house.

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Gringotts Wizarding Bank

August 18, 1998

He should have died when he'd had the chance. He had, of course, tried his damndest, but his best efforts had been no match for the-boy-who-would-always-be-a-thorn-in-his-side and the gaggle of gelatin-brained geese he called friends. The blighters had taken it as their personal mission to keep him alive after the battle, long enough for a team of healers to be dispatched from St. Mungos to wreck his carefully laid plans and force him to continue breathing, despite the stench of his own blood and loosened bowels.

What a bloody treat that had been.

Magic had taken him from mostly dead to fully alive in short order after that. Apparently, Arthur Weasley's brush with Nagini had been enough for the healers at the hospital to create an anti-venin—too late for Arthur, but long before Severus would need it.

It was a great fucking pity, too.

If he had died as he had meant to, he wouldn't be sitting in a goblin's office having his wand pulled like a bloody idiot.

"You're mistaken," he said, picking a piece of lint from his sleeve and dropping it onto the goblin's desk. The creature hissed with distaste but said nothing. "Drusilla Lestrange died in her infancy."

"I assure you, Mr Snape." The creatures voice was gravel and grit as he tapped his sharp claws over his desk in an irritating thrum. "There has been no mistake. Your bride is alive and well and in the bank as we speak."

"Impossible." He wasn't willing to even entertain the notion. Had she lived, the girl would be all of... what? Eighteen? Nineteen? He couldn't remember for the life of him when she had been born. Of course, it had been nearly twenty years since then.

A rap at the door interrupted Severus's display of sullen disbelief, and a withered looking goblin entered to whisper in it's colleague's ear.

The Goblin behind the desk—Severus thought his name might be Grotim—blinked twice and swallowed before looking up to meet his gaze.

"It seems your intended has grown impatient. There has been some damage to one of the vaults. I must urge you to take her in hand, sir."

Severus snorted.

Of all the ridiculous misunderstandings he'd experienced throughout his life, this had to be the most inconvenient.

"Very-well," he said, rising from his seat in one smooth motion, sending its wooden legs scraping back across the marble floor. "Take me to the girl. We'll clear this mess up and you can apologize profusely later."

He swept from the room before either of the Goblins could manage it, taking great pleasure in the way his cloak billowed behind him. His teaching robes were packed away at the moment, but he made it a point to look as dramatic as possible in public—it kept even the most misty-eyed of matrons, who had taken to following him about, at enough of a distance that he could make a quick escape when necessary.

"This way, sir." The more withered Goblin led him down a corridor and into a cart. Severus had always detested the bowels of Gringotts and the lengths one was forced to go through to reach their own possessions. He appreciated the security, but he was prone to motion sickness, and having that particular weakness highlighted each time he made a withdrawal was low on his list of things he was willing to tolerate. Right there beside 'interruptions to his first vacation in years' and just above 'students back-talking in class'.

The cart dropped out from under him for a moment, and his stomach lurched.

"Hell and damnation and Merlin's fucking ballsack!"

The goblin driving the cart shot him a scandalized look, and he glared back in response.

"Keep your bloody eyes on the track," he hissed.

The goblin, proud creature that it was, stiffened its back and sniffed. Severus wished it a slow and painful death. Perhaps a lingering illness. A skin disease of some kind. Poison?

He had just about settled on the potion he would use to end the creature's miserable life when the cart screeched to a halt. He scrambled out of the side and onto a wide, stone-cut platform with several vaults surrounding it. He took only a moment to let his stomach settle before he surveyed his surroundings.

He'd been here once before, but when he had come previously there had been a dragon guarding the vaults. It was gone now, of course, and the destruction it had left in its wake was still being repaired. Served the Goblins right for being such cantankerous little snots.

"The vault is open," rasped the goblin behind him. "She awaits within."

Severus's eyes flickered up to survey the line of doors. They were all open. He counted six, all brilliantly lit and beckoning to him. He could see piles of gold glinting within them.

He'd forgotten how ridiculously rich the Lestrange's had become over the years. Each of them had, of course, kept their own personal vault, but he seemed to remember Rabastan boasting that there were three familial vaults in addition, all filled with heirlooms and more gold than any family could spend in a dozen generations.

A shadow moved in one of the rooms, and Severus reached for his wand without thinking. It was a habit born of long years lurking in shadows and watching for trouble.

"Is the girl you think you've found the only one there?" he asked, not bothering to look back at the Goblin.

"A representative from the ministry has accompanied the Lady Lestrange, and several of the Bank's curse breakers are working to allow access to locked cabinets and trunks."

"Very well." Severus strode away without bothering to look back, crossing the stone platform and pausing outside the open vault where he had seen the shadow moving. He peered in without drawing attention to himself.

There were three people within. Two men stood beside a tall wardrobe, their heads bent together as their wands moved in tandem, tracing complicated runes over the wooden surface. The curse breakers, he knew. He paid them little mind, scanning past them until he caught sight of a slight woman with her back turned toward him. She was dressed in a pair of muggle jeans and a shirt short enough that it rode up as she reached for something on a tall shelf in front of her. He could see a smooth expanse of golden skin on her lower back as she strained and finally grabbed hold of a thick book bound in what looked like aged leather.

The shirt settled back into place as she came down off of her toes, and his eyes were drawn instead to the mass of curls tumbling down nearly to her waist, a frizzing nest of undisciplined locks more akin to medusa's snakes than to an actual head of hair.

The nausea which had plagued him during the journey down into the bowels of the bank gave a sharp tug at his innards, and his entire stomach sank down into his ball sack.

"Miss Granger?"

It couldn't be. There was some other witch in Great Britain with muggle blue jeans and hair so wild he had found it in his storeroom even after she had gone on the run with Potter the year before.

The woman swore and turned toward him. His face sculpted itself into a scowl reflexively.

"Professor?"

"What on earth are you—" he paused, because he really couldn't think of what to even ask. "Explain yourself at once!"

He expected her to comply—despite her many failings, she was nothing if not eager to impress her teachers—but all the girl did was scowl at him in return and clutch the thick book in her hands against her stomach as if it could somehow serve as a barrier between them.

In front of the wardrobe, the two curse-breakers stilled and turned to watch them.

"_You're_ the one Bergsling told me about?" Granger sounded absolutely perturbed.

"What are you doing here?" He was growling, but he didn't care. With any luck it would inspire her to answer his fucking question.

She swallowed but her expression only grew more determined… more defiant. She looked from him to the two men standing still on the other side of the room.

"I'm sorry, would you mind giving us a bit of privacy, gentlemen?"

The two wizards nodded and took their leave with a couple of smiles in her direction and what could only be termed as pitying looks in his.

"What the devil is going on here, Miss Granger?" Severus demanded once they had gone. There had to be some sort of explanation as to why she was there, because no one—not even a senile old goblin—could mistake the most famous Muggle-born witch in the country for a long lost Lestrange heir.

Granger took one deep breath and set the book in her arms aside atop a stack of golden bricks before wiping her hands on her denim clad legs and looking up at him. Her eyes were wide but determined.

"Were you, or were you not, betrothed to the infant daughter of the Lestrange's?"

Severus snorted. Merlin, it had been a lifetime ago, but he could still feel the weight of the child in his arms as the bond had been woven between them.

"Until I receive an explanation, Granger, I'll not be participating in your little inquisition. What the hell are you doing here?" He could think of no reason for the girl to be involved in a matter such as this… She was a student at Hogwarts, for Circe's sake. _His_ student. He'd seen her name on the roll not a month before and cursed it soundly.

The girl swallowed and blinked several times before she leveled her gaze on his forehead and spoke.

"I was contacted a week ago by a manager here at the bank by the name of Bergsling. He informed me that—"

"They contacted _you_ about Drusilla? What reason would they have to..." His voice trailed off for just a moment as a new thought occurred to him.

Of course. _Of course!_

He crossed his arms over his chest, the cuffs of his shirtsleeves pulling up past his wrists as he faced her.

"You've joined the ministry with Potter and Weasley, haven't you?" Her eyes widened—probably at his perceptiveness—and he cut her off before she could do something so trite as try to explain her reasoning.

"Of course you have, foolish child that you are. Why wouldn't the Gryffindor golden girl jump at the chance for further adulation, undeserved though it might be?"

"Sir, I don't think you understand—"

He held up a hand at her interruption.

"Oh I understand perfectly well. You think yourself beyond an education now that you've gotten a taste of fame. You found yourself sought after without your N.E.W.T.s and thought to take advantage— to leap over others more qualified than yourself, into a position of power that has been gift wrapped and given to you purely due to your association with Zeus's gift to Wizard-kind, the ever irksome boy-who-just-wouldn't-die."

He took a breath and continued, ignoring her narrowing eyes and the thinning of her lips.

"I don't know why I'm surprised by your lack of forethought, Miss Granger. Honestly, I don't. I ought to have known that a girl so eager to impress as you would leap at the first opportunity that came careening in her direction, no matter how paltry. What do they have you doing, girl? Goblin Liaison? Odds and ends? Did they create a post specifically for you and then send you here to handle the Bat of the Dungeon because they thought you brave enough?"

Her arms were crossed over her chest again, and he could see the blood pooling behind her cheeks and spreading across her face, obscuring the light smattering of freckles she'd accumulated over the bridge of her nose. He didn't give a damn if he was embarrassing her. He actually found himself quite irritated that she would throw herself at the Ministry so prematurely when sitting for another year at school and finishing it out _properly_ would give her so many more opportunities. It wasn't his business, but he admitted to himself that he was perturbed… disappointed, even, that he had wasted any amount of time educating a girl who valued education so little.

"Well," he continued, "carry on then, Miss Granger. What has the Ministry, in its infinite wisdom, sent you here to tell me? What poor fool imagines she can lay claim to the Lestrange fortune by posing as a long dead child?"

Her cheeks were scarlet now, and her hair seemed to be frizzing more intensely around her face as she glared back at him. It served her right, wasting her talents because the Ministry had seduced her into some small position for the country's morale.

It took more than a few moments for the girl to compose herself. He pitied her for a heartbeat and then assured himself that she had only gotten what was coming to her.

"Are you betrothed to Druella Lestrange?" she asked at last, her voice low but clear. She sounded angry, but Severus was unaffected by her ire.

"No," he drawled. "Drusilla Lestrange died in eighty-one. The betrothal ended with her death."

"Druella," Granger corrected.

Severus arched a brow.

"As you say."

"Under what circumstances did you become engaged to the infant daughter of Bellatrix Lestrange?" The girl continued her interrogation with a chin tilted in defiance.

Severus was growing bored, but responded nevertheless.

"She was given to me at the request of the Dark Lord, a reward and a punishment both."

"A punishment?" The scowl on Granger's face seemed to falter for a moment.

"Of course it was a punishment," Severus snapped. "She was a year old when the binding was done. I had begged the Dark Lord to spare an old friend." Lily's face flashed before his eyes for a moment before he banished it. "He was unamused. He told me such a woman could never be more than a momentary pleasure, but that for my _faithful_ service, he would reward me with a _proper_ wife."

"The Lestrange's agreed to this?"

Severus scoffed.

"Under duress, I assure you. It was the only time Bella ever attempted to deny our Master."

"What did she—" The girl stopped herself before she finished the question, and he thought for a moment she looked as if she might be sick.

"What did she do? She was put under the Imperius Curse and promised her child to me with blood and magic. When it was over, she took her daughter home and murdered her. Bella would never have allowed her blood to mingle with that of a half-blood."

"But then how— I don't understand."

Severus laughed coldly.

"Rare words from your lips, I'm sure."

The blush on Granger's cheeks added to the flush of her anger.

"They continued to follow Voldemort after that, though? Even though he'd caused the death of their child?"

He had to work hard to keep himself from flinching at the name, but he succeeded in the end.

"They believed in the cause, Miss Granger. It was more important to them than their own child. They envisioned a world where other pureblood children could live without the threat that Muggle-borns and half-bloods posed to their bloodlines. Besides, Lestrange daughters have always been seen as little more than ornaments. Lovely, but replaceable."

When he was done, he looked back at the girl. She stood with her arms at her sides, her hands clenched into fists and her lower lip trapped firmly between straight white teeth, smaller and neater than he remembered from her youth. She was breathing hard and there was something in her expression that gave him pause.

"Come now, you can't be that shocked that Bellatrix the Mad would resort to filicide rather than see her bloodlines dirtied. Her own sister was disowned for marrying a Muggle-born, after all. She would hardly have allowed her little Drusilla to sully herself thusly."

Granger's firewhisky eyes flicked up to meet his, and there was a stubborn determination there that he was all too familiar with. It was the look she had gotten before giving a long and rambling, yet ultimately correct, answer to a question he had posed in class.

"The girl was named Druella," she said softly. "After her grandmother, Druella Black."

Severus scoffed.

"Does it matter? She's not called anything anymore."

"Actually, sir, she is."

There was that look again, fierce and full of unearned self-confidence.

"Pray, do tell. Which pureblood flower wishes to claim me as her own? What child thinks she can lay claim to half the gold in Gringotts and convince us all she's some long lost heiress with nothing more than a pretty face and a rudimentary knowledge of history? I'd love to meet a woman with balls _that_ big."

"There's no need to be crass." The little termagant.

"I'll be whatever I damn well please. I've more than earned the right."

She huffed, actually huffed, with her arms crossed beneath her chest and her jaw clenched.

"Bring her out, then. Take me to her. Do what you must so that I can get back to my life and forget this trite little drama with a few fingers of brandy."

"Fine," Granger snapped, and he watched as she took six steps across the room to stand directly in front of him. He reached for his wand, grasping the handle reflexively as she reached up and yanked down on the neck of her t-shirt.

"Miss Granger, what do you think—"

"Shut up, Professor."

He gaped at her as she pulled the fabric farther down, and of their own volition, his eyes were drawn to the smooth, tan expanse of skin on her chest and the gentle swell she had exposed. He snapped his gaze back up once he realized where it had been, and was about to berate the girl anew when his heart stopped and his blood froze in his veins.

He looked back down at the bare flesh, and his eyes were riveted by what he saw there.

"What. Is. That?"

She was close enough to him that he could feel her breath on his neck as she let out a soft exhale.

"I'm told it's your family crest," she said, her words clipped and her voice matter of fact. "And as it turns out, Druella Lestrange actually is called something these days."

He could feel his jaw dropping open, his mouth gaping, and his eyes growing so wide he probably looked like a great old carp.

She met his gaze with a level stare of her own.

"She's called Hermione Granger." She let go of the fabric at her chest and it snapped back to her neck as she put her hands on her hips.

"Tell me again how I'm dead, professor?"


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thank you all so much for your lovely reviews. I read cherish every single one. My beta hasn't had a chance to look over this chapter for me yet, so all mistakes are mine.

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Severus Snape had always been a git, but, until now, she'd never realized how complete the arseishness really was. The man hadn't stopped berating or belittling her since he'd walked into the room, and as he stood there, his mouth gaping most unflatteringly, Hermione took a moment to appreciate the view. It served him right.

"My—" his gaze flicked back down to her breast for a moment and then back up to her face. Her shirt was already covering the silver mark on her skin again, but she couldn't help blushing knowing that he'd seen that part of her. The professor swallowed. "My family crest?"

The poor lamb sounded confused.

"The Prince family crest," she supplied helpfully. "You are the heir to that noble house, are you not?" She could see his mind working at lightning speed and those dark eyes flickering down and back up once more.

"When did it appear?" he asked. His voice was hoarse and the look on his face so earnest that she almost wondered whether he'd somehow replaced himself with a doppelgänger.

Hermione blushed at the question.

"At a most inopportune moment." She really didn't think she needed to say more.

"While you were being intimate with one of your lovers?"

"One of my—" She felt a familiar rage bubble inside of her. "How dare you."

Snape arched a brow. "Potter or Weasley," he clarified. "I could never figure out which of them you were involved with."

"Harry is like a brother to me, you lecherous old—"

"Weasley, then. Were you engaging in… licentiousness, when the mark appeared?"

Christ above, how could he stand there and ask her such things?

"It hurt like hell," she said, ignoring his question completely.

Snape snorted. "It would. It's a brand. A punishment for faithlessness."

"Faithlessness!?" She was shrieking now, but she didn't give a single damn. How dare he insinuate she had somehow trespassed by pursuing pleasure with a trusted friend? Someone she had known for ages and with whom she had only recently begun to explore the more intimate forms of exchange that one human being could have with another? She hadn't even managed to get her knickers off before her breast had caught bloody fire and she'd been writhing on the ground in agony.

Snape hummed in agreement. "Well, at least we know the bond worked as it was meant to."

It was her turn to gape.

"As it was _meant_ to? You meant to burn me for touching another man?"

The professor gave her a scathing look.

"Of course not. It was the Dark Lord who performed the binding. It was his will that Drusilla's—"

"Druella!"

"Yes, her. It was his will that her fidelity be ensured."

"Me."

He glanced up at her.

"Pardon?"

"Not 'her'. Me. My. I. It was me who was cursed."

Snape actually rolled his eyes at that.

"Feel free to dispense with the dramatics at any time, Miss Granger," he said smoothly, and she imagined what it would feel like to sink her fist into his smug face. Perhaps his greasy hooked nose would look better at an angle. She'd be doing him a favor, really.

"Besides," he continued, "it wasn't a curse. It is a standard, pureblood marriage contract."

"It's fucked up, is what it is."

"Language, girl."

She stuck her tongue out at him, and he made a disgusted sound.

"Hades, I can't believe the Ministry actually hired you. You're immature and recalcitrant."

Hermione gave him a look.

"I don't work for the Ministry," she said brusquely. "Haven't you worked that out yet?" Perhaps old age was making the man slow.

He caught up after another second or two, and his scowl deepened.

"Then you're still planning to return to Hogwarts in September?" he asked.

She arched a single brow then nodded before turning away from him and retreating to her spot beside the bookshelf. As she moved, her eyes skated over the scorched pock mark on the stone wall of the vault. Perhaps she had been a bit too forceful when she'd asked the goblins to see why it was taking so bloody long for her betrothed to appear. She supposed they would take the cost of repair out of one of these vaults, the same way they were planning on taking a third of the cost of damages from when she and the boys had robbed the very vault she now stood in. She had been assured that the 'small fee' would hardly be noticeable, and that it would be recovered in interest shortly.

"I asked you a question, Miss Granger."

She glanced back at him, in no mood to act the subservient student for a man who apparently saw no problem with his brand on her bloody chest.

"I've been told it's Miss Lestrange, now," she reminded him mildly.

He snorted, lifting one hand to run his fingers through his hair and brush it back away from his face. She stopped for a moment to watch him move. She had, of course, seen the professor outside of school in the past—he had been an Order member and present at Grimmauld place during the summer before her fifth year—but there was something different about this occasion. Perhaps it was that the mantle of spy had been lifted from his shoulders… or perhaps it was simply that the black robes she was so used to seeing him in had been replaced by a crisp, white linen shirt, and a pair of black trousers beneath his traveling cloak.

"Whatever you're called, you're apparently still my student, and as such, I demand the respect owed me."

He looked agitated, as if he'd been thrown off his axis and was working desperately to right himself.

"Not today," she dismissed, relishing the sneer her words evoked. "Besides, we still have business to discuss, you and I."

"There's no breaking the betrothal, if that's what you're after."

Her heart sank at his words and she felt herself deflated. She had suspected it would be the case, but hearing it from him made the situation more dire somehow.

"And why not?" Her voice was higher than she liked it, but she would excuse herself given the circumstance.

Snape gave her a pitying look.

"It was a blood bond, girl. Such things are unbreakable."

"I highly doubt that."

"Which only betrays your ignorance." His shoulders seemed to relax as he tucked his hands into the pockets of his slacks, and his eyes began to glitter. "I'm sure there's a book in one of your many vaults that will educate you on the subject of pureblood marriage contracts, but I'm afraid that—if you truly are who you claim to be— our union is all but accomplished."

The idea was preposterous and Hermione dismissed it as such. It didn't even bear examination.

"If you're not going to be helpful, Professor, you're welcome to show yourself out." She turned her back on him and tried to calm the racing of her pulse through sheer force of will. After everything she'd been through in the past few days, she wasn't going to let something like a slimy dungeon bat discomfit her.

Behind her, Snape had the audacity to chuckle. The sound was rich and deep and completely foreign to her. She loathed it almost immediately. How dare he laugh at her and at this bleak situation. She ought to hex him. Yes, that sounded like a _splendid_ idea.

Her wand was in her hand again before his next breath and she turned round to face him, brandishing the thing in front of his great stupid face and wide, dung beetle black eyes.

The laughter ceased almost immediately as she stepped forward, pressing her wand to his bare throat. It dimpled the rough skin there effortlessly, turning the pink scars from Nagini's attack white for a moment with the pressure.

"Careful, Miss Granger," His voice was low and rasping as something sharp poked between her ribs and she winced. Her eyes darted downward for a moment, just long enough to see a dark, shining wand sticking her in the side, before a large hand wrapped around her wrist and ripped it backward effortlessly.

Shocked, she looked up to see Snape sneering down at her, his other hand holding hers and her wand high in the air as he dug his own wand deeper into her side. "You wouldn't want to get off on the wrong foot with your intended, would you?"

"Oh, there's a great many things I'd like to do to you." She grinned at him and the confusion was evident on his face. Who in the hell did this man think she was? Yes, he had been her professor, and a spy for more years than she had memory, but she was Hermione bloody Granger. She'd fought her way through a war and come out on the other side smarter and stronger for it.

She opened the fist Snape held aloft, letting her wand fall and using her free hand to snatch it out of the air on its way down.

"_Petrificus Totalus_."

He dropped like a stone and she swore as he dragged her down with him, her wrist still clutched in his viselike grip.

"Bugger."

She fell on top of him, just barely catching herself with her elbow on his chest. He'd probably feel _that_ in the morning. His whole body was rigid as she scrambled over him, her knees scrapping over his thighs before settling on either side of his hips to give her purchase. She tried at once to keep herself off of him and to pry his hand open, but she'd always been deft with a full body bind. Unless she wished to actually break the man's fingers—and she had to admit, it was a disturbingly delicious thought—she would need to end the curse before extricating herself.

"Madame?"

A gravelly voice called from somewhere outside the vault and Hermione looked up toward the open entrance.

"Just a moment!" She called.

"A jinx was cast, madame. Is all well?"

"Everything's fine, yes!"

"There was no more damage to the vault?"

Blasted Goblins. They had been incredibly protective of the bank since she'd first entered it the day before. She couldn't blame them, given the damage she, Harry, and Ron had caused during their previous visit, but it did wear on her patience. She had come, after all, at their invitation, and had her life upended as a reward.

Curse the ministry for not keeping more detailed records. If they had, there would never have been a need to come to the goblins for help in identifying her own bloody name. As it was, however, the Ministry had no hand in pureblood betrothals. Such things were only ever recorded in family legers and at Gringotts, where money changed hands between the houses involved and the Goblins kept meticulous records.

When, at Ron's insistence, she had presented herself at the ministry with a new brand on her chest, they had forwarded her concerns to the bank, who had taken nearly a week to reply. Hermione herself had taken almost another full week to decide whether she actually wanted more information, but once she had, it had taken mere minutes for the Goblins to match the crest on her breast with her blood sample and their own records. She had been identified as the sole heir to the Lestrange fortune in less time than it took her to comb her hair.

Unsurprisingly, the Goblins had been far more interested in her new position than in giving her any identifying information about "The Prince Heir" they had named as her bondmate. She had, of course, known that Severus Snape's mother had been a Prince, but it had never crossed her mind that the male line may no longer be extant, and that _he_ might be the sole remaining heir to the House's properties and contracts.

"Madame?"

The goblin sounded worried and Hermione gritted her teeth before calling out to him.

"The vault is fine, thank you!"

"Very well."

Hermione tried to hoist herself up and backward, enough so that she could sit over Snape's thighs rather than his hips. But his hand was raised over his head in the same position it had been when her hex had struck him, her wrist still trapped within, and that meant that unless she wished to press her breasts to his belly and lay atop him, she could go no further.

Right. Nothing for it then, she would have to release him.

She took a moment to look him over as she tapped her wand against the floor of the vault. His eyes were still glittering, and she wondered for a moment whether he was amused by their situation, or whether even his eyes had been frozen completely.

"I'm going to need your word that when I release you, you will unhand me at once. Is that clear, Professor?"

There was no response, but she waited a polite amount of time all the same.

"Excellent," she said, voice proper as she could make it. "Now, once I release the charm, I am going to comb these vaults for every single book available on betrothal bonds. Once I find them, I'll have the answers I need, and we can be out of one another's hair in any capacity other than that of professor and pupil. So long as you don't try to hinder me, you are welcome to stay and help."

She took a deep breath and adjusted her sore knees on the flagstone floor.

"Right. _Finite_!"

"Why you little—"

"Do be polite, Professor." She scrambled off of him as soon as his grip loosened, and Snape sputtered on the floor while she moved. He rose as she did and soon towered over her in a quiet sort of fury she'd never really felt the full impact of before.

"The next time you curse me, Granger—" he spit her name out like a curse word, "You had better be prepared to make it a great deal more permanent, because I assure you I will not let such belligerent behavior pass in the future."

Hermione rolled her eyes at the empty threat.

"I don't expect I'll have much cause to hex you once this is done with and I'm back at school. I've never been an overly defiant student."

"Dammit, I meant when you're my wife!"

Hermione laughed.

"I guarantee you, that isn't a situation you'll ever need to worry yourself over."

"Stubborn, bloody stupid Gryffindor. Unless you're planning on crossing the river Styx anytime soon, it's a travesty we'll _both_ have to worry ourselves over."

What a perfectly ridiculous man.

"Please, I'd hardly resort to suicide when becoming a spinster would suffice. I wouldn't marry _you, _archaic betrothal bond or not, if you were the last man in the world."

And then he was laughing, actually laughing at her. The scowl that had taken over his features was lost in the mirth and the littles lines at the corners of his eyes highlighted a rather severe set of dimples on either cheek that she'd never noticed before.

Merlin, perhaps Nagini's venom had affected him cognitively rather than physically. Perhaps they hadn't gotten him to the healers in time after all. She hoped the damage wasn't _too_ severe. It would be a pity if he were unable to return to his post at the school, after everything he had sacrificed to keep the students there safe during his tenure. And she thought it might crush Harry if he learned they had succeeded in saving the potion master's body, but not his mind.

"Madame? Sir?"

The goblin was calling to them again.

"We're fine, thank you!" Hermione shouted back. She couldn't allow the Professor to be seen like this. The man he was would have hated it. She would have him seen by a healer at St. Mungos at the earliest opportunity. If there was any chance of salvaging his wits, she was sure they would need to see him sooner rather than later.

Bloody hell, were those tears rolling down his cheeks?

"Erm, Professor? I think you ought to calm down now, sir."

Her careful words only seemed to spur on the gales of laughter and Hermione considered another body bind before Snape produced a handkerchief and began to dab at the corners of his eyes. She stood awkwardly by for almost a minute before he sniffed several times and stowed the little white cloth back in his pocket.

"Are you—" She hesitated, how did one ask their professor slash fiance whether they were barmy? "Are you feeling better?"

He laughed again, but this time it was short lived, and ended with a smirk as he met her gaze. The expression was, frankly, disconcerting on him. It was a practiced look, one that reminded her vaguely of Draco Malfoy, the great bouncing prat, and which she now wondered whether Snape had had a hand in teaching him.

"Oh I have rarely felt better," he answered at last. "Laughter, it seems, truly is the best medicine."

She hummed noncommittally but continued to watch him. If this sort of hysteria was common, perhaps she ought to prolong the awkward engagement between them so that she could take his medical care in hand and assure that he received the very best standard of care. She realized that a majority of the Wizarding world now recognized him for the hero he was, but there would always be prejudices, no matter how much she had sacrificed to eradicate them. But with her as his champion, she could make sure such petty things did not prevent his treatment and—hopefully—rehabilitation.

"Sir, have you considered seeing a mind healer? If these fits are common it might indicate a trauma which—"

"What are you blathering on about now?"

She tried not to be offended, she really did.

"I'm only saying that, perhaps, the situation we find ourselves in doesn't merit the level of amusement you displayed, and that there might be another reason for your reaction."

_Like he's gone mad._

He chuckled this time, and the sound was dark and velvet in the air, almost a caress against her cheek.

"There was absolutely another reason," he said. "I must confess I find your ignorance amusing. It's so rare I have occasion to revel in it."

"Perhaps you could benefit from a rest, sir." She was trying to be charitable, she really was, but if he insulted her intellect again she wouldn't be held responsible for her reaction.

"Miss Granger, I understand that—being thrust into this situation without a guide—you must feel adrift. You have never had occasion to educate yourself on pureblood contracts and blood magicks. There is no course on it at Hogwarts, after all. Still, I would be remiss in my duty as your betrothed were I to leave you in the dark."

"Please don't call yourself that," she said.

Snape crossed his arms, his face smug as he stared down at her. "Would you prefer fiance? Intended? Paramour?"

"That is _quite_ enough of that."

"Of course. Why settle for such paltry appellations when in little more than a year I will be your husband? The head of your household. Your lord and master. The father of your brood."

She had her wand up and ready to silence him in a moment, but he was quicker than her this time. He'd plucked the vinewood from between her fingers and tossed it over his shoulder in a second flat. She was left gaping as he scowled down at her.

"Hexing me won't change the truth," he hissed, all signs of amusement gone from his dark features now. "Blood betrothals come with an end date, girl, and ours expires on your twentieth birthday. By then, we will wed, whether you like the idea of it or not."

She raised a hand to strike him, her heart rate erratic as he loomed over her. Her back was pressed against something solid and she hadn't realized he had herded her into a corner until that very instant.

He grabbed her wrist again, keeping her hand from flying as she seethed. "So do all the studying you like, _Miss Lestrange_. As for me, I will be enjoying my last year of bachelorhood in all of the most inventive ways possible."

He dropped her wrist and swept away, and she could feel her heartbeat thundering throughout her whole body. He couldn't be right. Not about any of it. There would be a way to end this _thing_ between them, to get his bloody _brand_ off of her chest and go back to normal, where she was just a girl going back to Hogwarts and he was just a surly war hero. A Professor.

Snape paused in the doorway of the vault, his back to her as he looked over his shoulder in her direction.

"You may want to begin strategizing for the blessed day sooner rather than later if you have any girlish dreams about weddings. I've heard the more lavish society events are a bitch to plan."

And then he left.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Mind the gap!

* * *

25 June 1999

Daphne was already seated by the time Hermione walked in. She spotted her at a small table near the window, sipping from a long stemmed glass of what looked like elf-made wine and dressed impeccably. The dusky, rose colored robes the blonde wore complemented her coloring well and clung to her every curve, and Hermione wondered if she ought to have dressed up a bit more for their lunch.

Peeking down at her own spaghetti strap top, denim jeans, and wedge sandals, she worried she might stand out a bit more than she'd intended, especially near a window. While muggle fashions had grown more common in wizarding establishments lately, she had a feeling _this_ place might be a bit more traditional.

Curse her for letting Daphne pick the spot.

"Can I help you, Miss?"

An elderly wizard in traditional robes stood behind a small podium nearby, and Hermione looked toward him as he spoke. His gaze was traveling downward from the top of her head and it didn't seem as if he approved of what he saw.

"If you're looking for a public washroom the nearest one is at the Leaky Cauldron."

Well that was nice.

"I'm meeting someone here, actually."

The wizard's thick brows rose but he nodded and let her pass as she made he way toward the window. Daphne spotted her in a moment and raised a hand in greeting before rising as she reached the table.

"There you are," she said, her voice soft and cheerful as she leaned in to lay a kiss on Hermione's cheek. "I was beginning to think you weren't coming."

"Had to stop at Gringott's." Apparently, six vaults were no longer enough to contain her wealth now that she'd empowered Bergsling to handle investments for her. She'd had to open another that morning.

"Sounds like an awful lot of fun," Daphne teased. "I hope you don't mind I ordered you something to drink." She motioned toward an untouched glass on the table, and as Hermione took her seat she nodded in thanks.

The pumpkin juice was crisp and clean in her mouth, not too sweet to be refreshing like what had been served at Hogwarts.

"I've got new samples in, by the way. I've brought them to look over whenever you're ready."

Daphne was patting a binder she'd just set on the table and Hermione eyed it with dread.

"More colors?" She asked. The last time Daphne had brought a binder she'd spent nearly an hour trying to decide between shades of white.

"It's about texture this time, really. I think we've already narrowed down what you want as far as color goes."

"Right. Maybe after lunch?"

Daphne tucked the samples away again, shrinking them and slipping them into a purse near her feet.

"Have you decided on which estate you'll be using for the event, by the way?"

Hermione took another sip of pumpkin juice and shook her head.

How she had been roped into letting Daphne Greengrass plan a society wedding for her, she would never know, but she liked to think it was because she was a spectacular friend rather than a push over.

"I haven't even had a chance to visit them all. It's only been a week."

"Good Lord, how many properties are there?"

Hermione counted in her head for a moment before answering. "Seven."

Daphne arched a brow.

"What on earth were the Lestrange's doing with _seven_ estates?"

"One of them is an old Black property, I think. I'm trying to convince Andromeda to take it, actually."

"And the rest?" Daphne seemed genuinely interested.

"Ancestral things. Only two or three are still livable as far as I know. The rest are ruins. Oh! And there's a townhouse in London I'm having cleaned out."

Daphne's eyes brightened.

"Where? We've got one in Mayfair Court."

"That's the place."

"Excellent! I'll make Daddy open ours and we can be neighbors for the Summer!"

Hermione smiled. It would be nice to be near her friend, even if it did mean giving her wedding planner greater access to her person. It would certainly be less awkward than staying with her former boyfriends parents as she was now. It wasn't that she didn't love the Weasley's—Molly and Arthur had been warmer to her in the past week alone than her parents, adoptive or biological, had ever been to her—but the subtle suggestions that she spend more time with their elder sons were beginning to wear. The Weasley's understood her circumstances, but they were romantics, and she knew they hoped that a love match with one of their sons could overcome the damoclean sword hanging over her neck and make her a part of their family more permanently. For her part, Hermione held out little hope.

She had researched more in the past school year than she ever had before, and yet her labors had yielded no fruit. The binding she had been thrust into as an infant was permanent, of that she was certain. Before her next birthday she would be married, and it wouldn't be to a ginger.

"What's on your mind, then?"

She looked back up at Daphne, whose chin was propped in one hand as she peered across the table at her.

"Wedded bliss," Hermione joked.

Daphne laughed.

"Oh to be sure. I can't imagine how you ever think of anything else, with such a _handsome _groom."

Hermione made a face.

"He's not _that_ bad," she said.

Daphne only shrugged. "I suppose not, but he's no Ronald."

Hermione faked a retching noise.

"Oh please, don't pretend you don't see it too. I have it under very good authority that snogging his speckled face is what got you into this mess in the first place."

"He _told_ you?!" Hermione was practically shrieking, and Daphne laughed, casting a quick muffliato to keep their conversation private.

"Don't blame him, I can be very persuasive without a top on."

"You hussy!"

"Hardly," Daphne snorted and the sound was so unladylike it gave Hermione pause. "I never allow them beneath my knickers, dear. That honor is reserved for my future husband. Besides—" she took a sip of her wine and smirked, "it's not as if the two of you were doing anything very interesting when you were…interrupted."

"Maybe not by your standards," said Hermione ruefully, "but it was the most interest I've ever exhibited."

Daphne tutted. "Not long now, love. Another three months and I'm sure our dear professor will have you expressing quite a _bit_ of interest."

"Slag."

"Prude."

"Have you had the lobster bisque here before?"

"Yes, it was quite good."

The two of them studied their menus for a bit after that, and Daphne ended her noise blocking charm when the waiter approached.

"Beg Pardon, but we've just received an owl for a Miss Lestrange. The owl was quite persistent and is waiting for a response in the kitchens. Do either of you—"

"I'll take that," Hermione said, snatching the scroll out of the man's hand and giving him a forced smile. "And we're ready to order if you don't mind taking it."

When he had gone, Hermione opened the missive under Daphne's eager gaze.

"Is it from him?"

"I'm sure it is." The bastard hadn't spoken a word to her since the last day of class, and yet he expected her to put her plans on hold to respond to him immediately when he deigned to communicate with her. It was Hogwarts all over.

She read the note and crumpled it in her fist. He could keep waiting for all she cared, and his bloody demon of an owl could rot in the kitchen.

"I'm sure that will end well," said Daphne as Hermione tucked the scrap of paper into her pocket.

"He can wait," said Hermione.

Daphne arched a delicate, pale brow. "We are talking about the same man, aren't we?"

"Shut it and let me see those bloody samples."

At the end of their meal, after Hermione had spent roughly half an hour fondling bits of fabric and had eaten half a bowl of the most delicious lobster bisque she'd ever tasted, she pulled the note back out again.

Daphne, who was becoming quite tipsy, managed to hold her tongue as Hermione unfurled and read it again.

_Hermione, _

_As you have taken the liberty of skipping our appointments for the past several weeks, I have taken the liberty of scheduling one for tomorrow evening. Make yourself available to me from seven until midnight, and find something appropriate to wear. The dress is formal. _

_Severus_

_PS: I detest the color scheme Miss Greengrass sent over last week. NO PINK. _

"Bastard."

"No sonnets?"

Hermione tossed the crumpled parchment to Daphne, who read it amusedly until the last line, at which point she gasped and glared down at it.

"Fucking prick. If he wants to make changes he can bloody well involve himself in the process."

"I'm afraid this is as involved as he gets," said Hermione.

And she wasn't lying. Though he had insisted on weekly dinners in the Headmasters quarters during the previous school year (and even exchanged his ability to discipline or take points from her for the honor) he had always left it to her to both coordinate a meal with the house-elves, and to carry their conversations. That hadn't prevented him from making scathing remarks when he had been displeased by either, but he seemed to view it as her duty somehow.

She crumpled the note again as Daphne handed it to her.

His manners now that she was out of school seemed to have worsened. She had hoped that being on equal footing once she graduated would help them to communicate more effectively, but she saw now that it had been a dream.

Severus Snape was not the sort of man who changed. He treated his students much as he treated his staff, and she assumed that meant his wife would merit little more consideration, Lady Lestrange or not.

"Fuck him." Hermione took another sip of pumpkin juice, though she was quite full.

"If you think it will improve his mood."

Hermione gave Daphne an unamused look.

"Oh, you meant it in the rude way."

"If he can't be bothered to ask me to an event properly, I don't see why I should feel obligated to attend. It's not as if we have appearances to keep up." And Merlin knew that was the truth. The news of her inheritance and the unfortunate betrothal that accompanied it had spread like wildfire throughout Wizarding England. Speculating about and gawking at the long lost Lady Lestrange had become something of a sport to the magical population, and her relationship (or lack there of) with the dour Headmaster of Hogwarts had been dissected relentlessly. Thankfully, any gossip about their relationship having been unprofessional on any level prior to the revelation of her status had been soundly dismissed. All she had to worry about now were her fellow students pitying glances and the jealous gazes of every woman over fifty any time she went out in public. The Wizarding World's matrons, it seemed, were taken with the dark hero Severus had been cast as since the end of the war.

"You owe him nothing," Daphne agreed. "I know you have to marry the man, but that doesn't mean he's allowed to treat you disgracefully without consequences." She tapped her long fingers on the tabletop and tilted her head to the side. "You know who you ought to talk to?"

"Who's that?"

"Narcissa Malfoy. She's been a married Lady longer than either of us has been alive, and by all accounts she handles Lucius beautifully."

Hermione arched a brow.

"If by 'handles' you mean, 'allows to commit genocide' then yes, beautifully."

"Don't be difficult. Political differences aside, I've never caught wind of Lucius straying from Narcissa's bed, or treating her as anything less than divine."

"Political differences? They tortured me in their home!"

"It was war," Daphne dismissed.

"It was evil."

"Yes, well I didn't say she was perfect, only that she knew how to keep her husband on a short leash, a skill I think you might benefit from."

Hermione scoffed.

"I think the woman who tried to leash Severus would win several nasty bites for her efforts."

"I keep telling you his bark is far worse. He was an absolute puffskein to the Slytherins."

"Lucky for you," said Hermione dryly.

Someone nearby cleared their throat.

Daphne kicked Hermione under the table and flashed a brilliant smile just behind her.

Hermione turned in her seat to see whoever had interrupted and immediately regretted it.

"Hermione, what an absolute pleasure to see you here."

"Hello Cormac."

The man grinned wide, reaching up to ruffle his blonde hair and winking down at her as he did so.

"You know I've been meaning to owl you. I wasn't sure if you'd heard I was bumped up to first string with the Wasps." He winked at her and Hermione felt herself grow queasy.

"I think I did hear that," she said. "Congratulations."

"McLaggen, isn't it?" Daphne, never shy, smirked up at Cormac and leaned back in her seat, the picture of ease.

"That's right. I play for the Wimbourne Wasps."

Hermione watched as Daphne waited for him to ask her for her name in return, and when no such invitation came, her blue eyes flashed.

"That's Quidditch, isn't it?"

Hermione took another sip of pumpkin juice to hide her smile as Cormac spluttered and tried to keep on the charm.

"I must confess I don't follow the sport closely," continued Daphne, as she rose from her seat and pulled Hermione up with her by the arm. "I find it intellectually barren, and most of the men who engage in it equally as dull witted."

"Hang on—" Cormac tried to cut in, but Daphne, it seemed, was uninterested in letting the interaction continue.

"If you'll excuse us, dear," she said to him as she pulled Hermione closer, "We were on our way out."

Just then, several things happened at once. Cormac reached for her, his hand wrapping around her wrist to keep her where she was, and an owl screeched somewhere nearby. As that was happening, a bright light flashed somewhere in front of her and Hermione winced.

"_Stupefy_."

She wasn't sure how long it took for her to hex McLaggen, but it couldn't have taken long. She was still seeing spots by the time he hit the floor, and it took several seconds more and a litany of swear words from Daphne before Hermione registered that there was a reporter with a camera standing on the other side of the window, a great big flash aimed in her direction, and a huge, self satisfied smirk on his face.

She barely managed to close her eyes before the light flashed again.

"Come on," she said, turning and grabbing Daphne by the arm as she guided her back toward the kitchens.

"Fucking paparazzo," the blonde swore.

"Miss! You can't go in there!" called a distressed sounding waiter.

"The hell I can't," Hermione muttered as she pushed her way through with Daphne.

Unfortunately, they had barely cleared the doors when something large and winged flew straight for Hermione's head, tugging at her braided hair with sharp talons and screeching for all it was worth.

Daphne shrieked and a full blown commotion broke out as people ran to help.

Hermione, panicking by now, couldn't seem to find her bloody wand. It probably didn't help that she was too busy batting away the creature dive bombing to her to make a proper search of the little bag she carried with her.

"Get it off!" shouted Daphne.

Hermione felt something sharp pinch her ear.

"Son of a bitch! Filthy fucking bird!"

"Stay calm!" screamed Daphne. "_Immobulus_!"

Her heart still racing like it was at the Royal Ascot, and a fresh stinging across her knuckles, Hermione risked looking up.

The demon bird was hanging in the air, frozen with a lock of her hair in its beak. Dark as night and thoroughly plump, it could only belong to one person. One awful, entitled, arrogant person.

"I'm going to kill him," she hissed, yanking her hair away from the owl. Several of the strands broke, caught tightly between the razor sharp halves of the beak. "I'm going to murder him, and then I'm going to feed him to the thestrals. No one will be the wiser."

"Well, only the people in this kitchen," said Daphne, who was still panting.

"Are you alright, Miss? Bloody bird's been here for more than an hour and won't leave." One of the cooks was pulling the owl out of the air and folding its wings against it carefully.

"I'll take it with me," Hermione said, and held a hand out for it.

The woman looked back at her worriedly, as if she thought the owl might not deserve whatever fate Hermione had planned for it. And perhaps she was right to be concerned.

"She knows the owner," Daphne assured, her voice taking on the lovely lilt she used when she was trying to be persuasive. "She'll take it back where it belongs."

The cook handed the creature over without another word and Hermione took it by one filthy, scaled leg, dangling it beside her and turning to Daphne.

"It was lovely seeing you," she said, voice stiff. "I'll owl you when I'm in Mayfair Court."

"You'd better," said Daphne.

And then Hermione excused herself, searching the kitchen until she found its exit and leaving through it. The black owl hit her thigh with every step she took, a weighty reminder of her new purpose in life.

She was going to take the bloody owl, and feed it to Severus Snape bit by bit, and when she was done, she was going to bludgeon him over the head with its carcass for good measure.

All she had to do first, was find the bastard.


End file.
